


What If We Run Away?

by orphan_account



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (sort of) ambiguous ending, M/M, basically they both run away and yh, excessive elaboration, it's a bit sad in some places i apologise, it's in troye's point of view, this is actually quite long i'm proud
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 07:37:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5700328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>troye's made a particularly bad decision. he might not be alone in that sense, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What If We Run Away?

It's dark; the pitch black sky wraps its way around everything, covering the land like a blanket. It's unnervingly scary, which is odd for me, because I've always had some sort of strange fascination with the night. Perhaps it's because I recall some of my best memories happening in the late hours of the night -- like that one time I went out and got slightly drunk (read: undeniably fucking smashed) with my 'friends', and I remember doing absolutely nothing really worthy of elaborating on, besides just having a laugh.

In that moment, it didn't matter that I knew they didn't actually like me, and it didn't matter that they were most likely using me. All that mattered was the drinks and the jokes and the laughs. For some reason, it makes me smile when I think about it. It's just nice to reflect, isn't it?

Well, not all the time, actually. Not this time, at least. The story _why_  is complicated (to say the least), and also links back to why I'm unusually anxious, but regardless, I'll do my best to delve into my memories and explain it.

I'm unsure exactly when it all started -- perhaps my whole life, I can't be fully sure -- but for as long as I can remember, I've been constantly pressured by my family, friends, and teachers. It's like I'm their puppet, and they're incessantly dragging me about under their commands. I'm a powerless ragdoll forced to live for other people and not for myself, and I can't seem to escape it. I want to do my own thing; it's my greatest desire and under even my greatest of protests I can never seem to get through to anyone.

Stupidly, being the young, naïve fucker I was, I decided that the best way to deal with this was to act out. Constantly. I'd get drunk all the time, I'd do some drugs here and there -- anything you can think of, I've probably done it. And, to put it simply, it pretty much ruined me. I got a bit addicted, and this one time it went a little too far. . .

Needless to say, I'm being sent off to some kind of recovery-centre-place-thing, and I really, really hate the idea of going, which leads me on to bad decision number two: I've made the (rather stupid and careless, really) decision of running away, and so here I am. I know it's stupid, don't get me wrong, I won't deny that. But it's all I can possibly fathom doing. Hell, it's all I have the _guts_ to do. I can start a new life for myself. Perhaps it's not logical, but I've never been one for that. I'm painstakingly impulsive.

In my borderline-tipsy state, I map out a haphazard route towards the docks, because it's the place I'm most familiar with, and I know I can successfully clear my head of its demons that repeatedly haunt my conscience. I'm not sure why it does -- it's likely to be the whole 'memories' thing again.

Or maybe it's the simplicity of the area; the water is constant, unlike a lot of other things in my life. The gentle sound of the tides coming in and out are relaxing, and never fail to calm me down. It's as if I find some sort of acquaintance within the substance; it's a little odd, yet somewhat nice. The water can't reject me like a human can take my heart and smash it, I mean. I often feel like I'm drowning in my own mind, and you're always told to fight fire with fire, so the same should apply to water, right? It apparently works in my case, regardless.

I'm not entirely sure how long I've been sat on the edge of the docks with my legs hugged in tight by my arms for warmth (it's fucking cold, and I only have a thin hoodie, because I'm a bit of an idiot, if you haven't already guessed). The air blows cold against my slender frame and I shiver absentmindedly, pulling my jean-clad legs tighter in. I sit for a few more minutes, breathing calmly and steadily, before laying back down to look at the (very few) stars that shine white in contrast to the pitch-black sheet of the sky.

It doesn't take long before I'm yawning, yawning, yawning. . .

✦ . ·

I can feel something, or some _one_ , rather, tapping gently at my shoulder, and I slowly open my eyes, groaning a little.

"Fuck off," I mumble, reluctant to escape my sleepy state. I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my jacket, before looking up at said someone.

"Not happening," the person says, who I can now clearly tell is a boy of about my age, though a few centimetres smaller than myself. It's still dark (that bastard, waking me up before sunrise. Hasn't he realised that I actually need to sleep?), so I can't properly make out every detail, but he's definitely attractive, I'll give him that.

"Whyever not?" I question him, raising an eyebrow.

He smirks. "That's for me to know and for you to wonder."

"Great." I roll my eyes, before properly sitting up and opening my bag up to find a bottle of water. I take a gulp before putting it back, then look over at him again.

I, again, can't see his face properly, but he appears to have an inquizitive expression on his face. "What brings a boy like yourself here, alone?" he asks, watching me as I move.

I shrug, "a lot of things. What's that supposed to mean, anyway?" Perhaps I should've been less vague, but I don't feel like explaining myself at the moment. Besides, he's a complete stranger at this point -- I'm even unaware of his name, for God's sake! He could be some kind of murderer for all I know. Unlikely, but possible.

He mirrors me, shrugging also. "I don't know. But I don't think you should be on your own," he says carefully, as if I'd get too offended and snap at him if he had said it with any less caution. He might be right on that account -- I'm not in the best of moods, considering my rude awakening.

But maybe I can get over that, because he doesn't seem like a bad guy, to be fair. Maybe it's unsafe to be making assumptions about him this early on, but considering my current circumstances, how much more shit could I _possibly_ get myself into? Exactly. I'm going with my gut instinct.

I look him straight in the eye. "Yeah, perhaps I shouldn't be alone." He smiles, and I reciprocate. Not to be, like, overly homosexual, but his smile was rather nice; it's ever-so-slightly crooked, but very genuine. Kind of comforting, in a way. It's the kind of smile that's reassuring and makes you feel at ease, if that makes any sense at all.

"So, stranger, what's your name?" he then asks me, swiftly moving the topic along.

"Troye. It's spelt with an E on the end, though, so unfortunately I'm not exactly twinning with Troy Bolton," I say, trying to grasp a sense of normality by making a rather weak attempt at a joke. I've never been one for ice breakers, to be truthful. I can't say I'll be getting a job as a comedian any time soon, either.

He chuckles a little, to my surprise. "Nice to meet you, not Troy Bolton. I'm Connor," he says, holding out his hand for me to shake it. I do so.

"Nice to meet you, too. So, what brings yourself here, then? Bit hypocritical to call me out on being alone when you don't appear to be with anyone either."

"You got me there. I'm sort of a runaway, you could say, but I don't actually know what I'm doing. Reason is classified until you tell me yours," he answers. Fair enough.

"Same," I simply reply, and we share a (slightly awkward) knowing look for a moment. It feels absurdly comforting to relate to someone, because I've never really had that, being the social reject I've been labelled.

We remain in a state of comfortable silence for several minutes. The only heard sounds are the few cars that I can only assume are from a fairly nearby road, the wind blowing, and our heavy breathing. I  can't think of a time I've ever been more content.

I interrupt the silence, "I want to live for myself. I'm consistently overshadowed by those around me and I want it to be different. I used to act out to get attention because nobody really cared about me, and I wanted change, so here I am."

Connor stares at me in shock (partly probably because I ruined the moment). "That sucks. I'm sorry," he whispers.

Though I appreciate the generosity, it's not his fault. "Thanks," I end up saying, though, and I flash him a small, nervous smile.

It's a few minutes for Connor to speak up. "My parents are homophobic. I came out to them after months of being in the closet and they screamed at me, telling me how abnormal and wrong it is. I couldn't take it anymore, so I packed my bags and left."

I can't empathise with him on this matter, because I hadn't actually came out to anybody -- not because I'm ashamed, but because I simply have no one to come out to. There's nobody relevant in my life that cares about me enough to be interested in who I am, which is quite a shitty feeling. I live a largely solitary life, and ideally, that's not what I'd initially like. I aspire to have someone to confide in, and not just the fucking ocean like I have been doing previously.

Yes, I've had acquaintences, like the aforementioned 'friends' I touched on, but it's not the same. I can't _talk_ to them, not really. They wouldn't give me advice if I begged on my knees for it. They're the type of people who're vain, selfish, egotistical and narcissistic; they only care about you when there's something in it for them, you know? That isn't what friendship is. I know that.

"That's awful. You shouldn't have gone through that," I finally say after processing the information properly.

"I know; nobody should."

✦ . ·

It's sort of an unspoken agreement that Connor and I would travel together, move together, exist together; we've pretty much weighed out all our options and decided that being together is better than being alone. We've briefly discussed the basics: how much money we have, the supplies we're carrying, our different skills, potential jobs, et cetera. I can wholeheartedly say it's the most organised I've been in years.

We walk hand in hand down the street, fearful of letting go of the one person who confiding in is no hazard, quietly chatting about ourselves.

Connor grew up in America but moved here because his Dad got a job, or something (even he's not too sure on the details. He claims to not have been paying much attention. I reckon I'd have done the same). He's a few years older than me (twenty three, while I'm a mere twenty), has an obsession with coffee (which he's already complained about having a lack of in his system about a million times already) and photography, and in turn for these facts, I tell him about my songwriting and aspiration to have a career in music. It's a typically cliché American Dream, but whatever.

He's quite a complex person with a lot of odd little traits and flaws, which is strangely endearing. With every fact I learn about him, I have a burning desire to learn another. He's utterly and completely interesting, and I swear to God I could listen to him ramble aimlessly for hours and hours on end. He's truly beautiful on the inside and out -- he's done a lot of charity work, and is one of those people who will go to all costs to make everyone satisfied. He's a human version of Baymax, to put it simply.

When I first walked out, I'd already pretty much accepted that I was just going to haphazardly stumble my way through the next few years, sleeping in the streets and constantly asking around for jobs and/or spare money. It's different, now: I have Connor, and we're in this together. He makes it feel like the world isn't falling to shit around me -- it's actually pretty OK.

✦ . ·

Fastforward a few months, and now I've just turned twenty one. I still travel with Connor, and to be honest, we aren't doing that great. It's not terrible, per say; it's just a bit. . . not amazing. We have a small, cramped place to stay, but it's nothing special. We're soon to be evicted because we can't fully pay rent, and we're losing weight because of the lack of food. It's not a glamorous lifestyle.

It feels a little bit hopeless at times, continuing with no plan, and with little success. It feels like the whole universe is against me. I have a semi-permanent feeling of emptiness, and when I don't feel empty, I'm just sad/discouraged. It's a crappy cycle, but alas, I can't do anything about it. I can't quite decide overall if it's better than my previous situation; whereas I'm the boss of my life now, I'm also struggling greatly, but then again, I do have Connor with me along the way.

I think Connor is my serendipity. He's this random, wonderful occurrence that continues to improve my life in unknowingly sweet little ways, and I couldn't be more thankful he decided to come up and talk to me that one faithful evening. Perhaps the circumstances could've been better, but that doesn't change the fact that in every developing moment I grow more infatuated with the green-eyed boy, and all of his little quirks and smiles and puns.

One night, I'm having trouble sleeping (nothing new, but this night is particularly bad), so I wake Connor up for a small talk to calm me down. I feel sort of guilty for doing this, because he actually seems quite peaceful, but it's the only way I know how to deal with problems nowadays.

(Yes, I'm aware that it's probably not the best of ideas to become so reliant and dependent on a single human being, but I think we've established by now that I'm really no good at making important decisions/life choices.)

"Do you ever regret it?" I quietly ask him.

"No," he says surely.

"Me neither. It's just-- I mean, well-- Do you think we'll be OK? Will this ever work out for us?" I attempt to fight back tears at this point. I'm losing it.

"I think," Connor whispers, "that we'll be fine, so long as we stick together, yeah?"

I nod in response, knowing that if I open my mouth to speak my voice will be hoarse and shaky.

"It's just me and you against the world, Troye. Remember that. Me and you against the world," he says.

I shuffle closer into him, and clasp our hands together. He gently kisses the top of my head, and I smile slightly, sighing.

I can only hope he's right.

**Author's Note:**

> it feels like it's been forever since i last wrote a oneshot, but really, it hasn't even been a month.
> 
> regardless, i hope you enjoyed; first person and present tense aren't particularly my forte, so i'd appreciate the feedback if you have any time!
> 
> love, riley x


End file.
